


Coming is Inconvenient: The Story of a Club, a Dance, and an Unapologetically Bisexual John Watson

by thewaitwasworthitlove



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Study in Pink, Alternative First Meeting, Bisexual John Watson, Dancing, Dirty Talk, M/M, Shameless Smut, Smut, Unilock, club
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-11
Updated: 2014-08-11
Packaged: 2018-02-12 18:49:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2120805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thewaitwasworthitlove/pseuds/thewaitwasworthitlove
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John was a pretty easy going person. He’d never asked for much out of people and was comfortable to take what people gave him. As a lover it made him astoundingly indulgent, as a student it had made him adaptable, and as a doctor in training it had made him calm in the face of trauma. The rhythm of the music at the club changed to something more deliciously sexual, and in that moment he was uncharacteristically begging God for just one night where things all went his way. Somehow, he’d found himself led by the wrist to the epicenter of the dance floor. The beat of the music was part of him now, he was sure, slow and seductive. The hand grasping him was oddly gentle and attached to a man he’d met only minutes before. A man so fucking pretty he’d been battling his baser instincts just to keep himself upright and not launch himself at Sherlock, drag them into a sweaty tangle on the floor, and attempt to fuck him through it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Coming is Inconvenient: The Story of a Club, a Dance, and an Unapologetically Bisexual John Watson

**Author's Note:**

> I meant to write a little drabble about Sherlock deducing exactly what made John Watson moan and groan, what happened was nearly 8,000 words of dancing, dirty talk, and debauchery. 
> 
> Which, really, is the way it should always be. ;)

 

               John closed his eyes, the bass of the music thumping through his chest. Finals were over, and all of St. Bart’s had made the collective decision that drinks and celebration were in order. John hadn’t slept more than three hours a night in three days and would have liked nothing more than to go back to his crackerjack box of a flat and sleep until Monday. One look at Mike Stamford’s face had told him that wasn’t an option. So, instead, he had went home and taken a brief (far too brief) nap before pulling himself together for a night out in London.

               “Come on, Watson. Loosen up,” Mike shouted in his ear. Mike was just this side of pissed. He was peering over John’s shoulder appreciatively.

               “That brunette’s been lookin’ at you all night like she wants to eat you,” Mike said, tilting his chin for John to follow. John looked over his shoulder to a woman, sitting at one of the small, high-topped tables. Mike threw an arm across his shoulders while John held her eyes, “And you know what? I say you let her, mate. If you don’t, I certainly will.” John flashed her a broad smile and she grinned wickedly in return with a brightly painted mouth. Oh yes, she was his type. Well, she was one of his types anyway. Variety, the spice of life, and all that. She was undoubtedly lovely, all gleaming eyes and experience.

               John laughed and quickly downed the last half of his beer. “Well then, who am I to refuse her?” He asked, winking. Mike chuckled and thumped him on the back for good luck.

               John made his way through the crowd to where the woman was seated in a quiet alcove away from the crush of people. As he walked, he denied the other women who tried to grab his attention instead. After all, John Watson was attractive. A wide-open face made out of golden skin, strong jaw line, and eyes like midnight made up for any shortness in statute, but that wasn’t why women flocked to him. He was kind, he was self-effacing, and he cared. He exuded self-confidence and warmth.

              He’d already gotten a reputation among the women of St. Bart’s. If you ever wanted or needed a night to make you feel human again, call John Watson. He’d take you out, he’d listen to you, and, if you wanted to, he’d take you to his bed. In the morning, he’d make you eggs and tea after a nice, lazy round of morning sex. Plus, you were almost guaranteed at least three screaming orgasms by the time you left. The man had a golden tongue and a patience with lovers, holding back until he was absolutely sure they were satisfied. Later when he saw you at school or in the hospital, he was still kind, still remembered your name, and endeavored to make everything easy, everything _fine_. He didn’t expect anything more, in fact, _preferred_ that it didn’t go any further. In short, he was the perfect one night stand.

              In the smaller gay and bisexual community, his reputation proceeded himself. John liked women. John liked men. Most of all, John liked sex. Great sex. He was discrete, never sure if his male lovers would like anonymity, but opting for carefulness so as to ease any potential discomfort. He was always generous, always thoughtful. He adapted himself to whatever his lover was comfortable with. If the idea of bottoming seemed to shock or scare, he was more than happy to oblige and play the role himself, having no real preference. The next morning, he’d kiss you goodbye and lean against the doorway, well-muscled arms crossed, beaming good-naturedly as you left for your next round of rotations or morning lecture.  

              John got to the table after a minute of pressing and groping and found the woman still regarding him and smiling wolfishly.

              “Hello,” he greeted.

              “Hello, yourself.” She extended a manicured hand out to him. Her palms were smooth and soft. “I’m Irene, and you are gorgeous.” She raked her eyes over John’s body, toned from years and years of rugby and football, his pecs and biceps pulling at the soft grey, cotton T-shirt. He saw her appreciation and silently thanked the gods for all the conditioning he’d endured before med school had gotten in the way.

              John laughed loudly. She was cheeky. He liked women with a sense of humor. It indicated better mornings after and lots of joyous, laughing sex.

              “Pretty lame pick up line, Irene,” he teased.

              “Yes, well, I wanted to see what you’d look like with your head thrown back. Now, I know.” She quirked an eyebrow, “Perhaps I’d like to see it again in a rather different context,” she purred.

              John laughed again. _Oh, this **is** going to be fun_. “Well, it’s nice to meet you. I’m John.” He scanned the space. “So what brings you here? You seem as interested in this,” he gestured to the throngs of people, “As I am.”

              She rolled her blue eyes, and her lips twisted into a frown. “Baby-sitting,” she groaned.

              “Hardly a good environment for a kid,” he observed, tone full of wry humor.

              “Yes, especially for a brilliant, beautiful one with a recovering coke addiction,” she said. “But, you’re more right than you know. Sherlock Holmes is more a child than anything else.” She peered to her right at the dance floor, and John followed her eyes.

              And then, his brain went offline. All the air went out of the room. The club, already swelteringly hot, notched up to dangerously furnace-like temperatures. 

 _Jesus Fucking Christ_.

_He can’t be human._

              In front of him was the most beautiful person he’d ever seen. He was tall and slender, almost willowy, his hair a jumbled riot of mahogany curls. His eyes were closed as he danced, completely oblivious to everything around him. The skin stretched over his high cheekbones was stained pink from dancing and matched the soft ridiculousness of his mouth.

 _Just once._ **Just once**   _before I die, I’d like to know what that Cupid’s bow tastes like._

              John was still admiring Sherlock’s face when a flash of red hair interrupted his view. The other boy was tall and lovely, one of those guys John had no chance with. Flawlessly chiseled and towering over him. He looked perfect with Sherlock. He had grabbed Sherlock’s neck before spinning himself around to face John and Irene, grinding himself down on Sherlock’s groin. Sherlock smiled and latched a large hand to his hip before drawing him impossibly closer.

             Then, he started to move in earnest, and John thought he might combust right there.

              It was pornographic, indecent, the way that man was moving now, his hips undulating with practiced ease. It was far too easy to imagine Sherlock Holmes naked in his bedroom and bucking his hips as John attempted to swallow his cock whole. He wondered how long it would take him to have Sherlock completely pulled apart. Hopefully, he’d accomplish the task before Sherlock succeeded in destroying John. Never before had he been so aroused and terrified at the idea of sleeping with someone.  

               John was lost in his thoughts when he noted he was no longer an undetected voyeur. The redhead was positively panting under Sherlock’s ministrations, and Sherlock himself was now regarding John from over the other man’s shoulder. John was too far away to make out the details of his expression, but John watched as Sherlock’s lips curled up into a smug smile.

 _Fuck, the bastard likes this_. John wondered just how many of his thoughts had been written on his face and how many of them Sherlock had been able to make out half-way across the room.

              A voice interrupted him from his panic.

              “Oh, John. I really thought we could have had some fun tonight.” Irene’s tone was light and wistful.

              “What do you mean?” He asked, tearing his eyes away from Sherlock and back to her.

               She cocked her head to one side and appraised him coolly. “Don’t play dumb, John. You aren’t, and it doesn’t look good on you. I make it my business to know what people like. You _liked_ me, and if Sherlock wasn’t here, I would have had you in your bed begging for mercy twice—“

              “Oh, I don’t beg,” he said firmly, temper prickling at her confidence.

               She met his gaze. “Twice,” she promised before waiting a beat. “Anyway, I would have done so, but I’m afraid that option’s rather off the table now.”

              “And why is that?” He asked. Her games were growing old.

             “Because you just gaped at him like a blind man seeing light for the first time. And as talented as I may be, I am, after all, lacking some of the... hardware you’d need to ease yourself through those particular fantasies.”

             “What? I mean, I—” He felt his face flush. He wasn’t embarrassed to have been caught appreciating another man, but he _was_ embarrassed that his intentions had been so painfully obvious.

              “Are you just going to leave me standing here, Adler?” A deep voice remarked from beside John. He’d been so focused on his infuriating conversation with Irene that he hadn’t noticed anyone approach. He turned towards the voice and came face to face with Sherlock Holmes himself. John looked up slightly at the taller man and met his eyes, now knowing they were the best of all of Sherlock’s many spectacular features. They were like the edges of an ocean, greyish blue streaked through with sage greens, sparkling with slivers of emerald and sapphire in the oscillating lights from the dance floor.

               Sherlock leaned into John’s personal space, far too close for just a friendly encounter. He was attempting to invade John. Between Irene’s declaration that she could make him beg and this clear act of dominance, he lost it. No more playing games. John’s spine stiffened at the challenge, and he squared his jaw.

               “No need, Irene,” he said briskly, moving further into Sherlock’s personal space. He was pressing forward where others would have backed off. “My name’s John Watson. Pleasure’s mine, Sherlock,” he said smoothly. His voice was lower, commanding.

                Sherlock was a little taken aback that John already knew his name and pulled slightly away from him. Clearly, the man wasn’t used to being challenged. _Oh, Sherlock Holmes. You have noooo idea._ Sherlock recovered quickly, a small smile now on his lips. John thought that Sherlock had just administered a test, and he had unwittingly passed it by refusing to be overwhelmed by Sherlock’s presence.

                “Ah,” Sherlock breathed lightly, “I see Irene has been talking.”

                Irene sighed. “Yes, Sherlock. That is generally the point when one is searching for a partner for the evening.”

               “ _Trying?_ ” Sherlock raised a brow before drawing his face into a mocking scowl. “Oh, Irene, you really have lost your touch. May I borrow your phone?”

               “What’s wrong with yours?” She asked.

               “Always a risk the number will be recognized."

               “Here,” John offered, “Take mine.”

                Sherlock’s eyebrows raised slightly in surprise. “Thank you. At least someone here is of some use.”

                Irene sent him a scathing glare before getting up from the table. “Well gentlemen, it’s been lovely, but I’d rather go somewhere where I have a bloody chance of a shag. Tell me Sherlock, where has that delicious redhead gone?”

               “Mmmm, no idea,” Sherlock dismissed, clearly captivated by whatever it was he was sending. He was still looking at John, his eyes raking over every inch of him. John wanted to squirm or tell him to stop. It felt too intimate, like he was an insect pinned to a mat.

                Irene began to pull away, and John focused. He moved past Sherlock and grabbed her by the wrist gently. She turned around. Maybe he could get her number and they could try the whole bed thing. John wouldn’t mind begging. Well, not that much, anyway.

                “Look, Irene. I’d really like to—“

                She smiled kindly, and pulled her wrist from his grasp before laying her hand on his cheek.

                “Oh, John Watson, you have no idea what you’ve done, do you? No dear, we’re done here.” Her thumb stroked his jaw as she appraised him. “Pity really. We would have had fun.” She peaked over his shoulder to Sherlock, “I’m presuming you know your way home?”

                “I’ll manage,” he drawled.

                “Good. It seems I leave you in rather … capable hands. Even your brother couldn’t complain.” And with that, she vanished from their rather isolated alcove and into the mass of twisting bodies.

                The space felt inexplicably smaller although there were only the two of them now. John took a steadying breath before turning back to face Sherlock.  

                “So you’ve a brother?” John asked. Keeping the conversation light would be necessary for him to keep his wits.

                “Yes, obviously,” Sherlock answered. “He’s the most dangerous man you’re likely never meet, and, decidedly, not my problem right now.”

                “Well,” John said stepping back towards Sherlock. They were only a step away from one another, “What exactly is your problem right now?”

                Sherlock’s eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward. “You,” he asserted. He considered John for a moment more, studying him even more carefully and then moving all at once, as though he’d made up his mind about something or the other.

                “You’ve already had the pleasure of watching me dance once. Care for a more personal view?” Sherlock turned and started swaggering back to where he’d come from before eyeing John from over his shoulder, “Coming?”

                John, who was still frozen in place, snapped into action.

               “Oh God, yes,” he replied, tearing after him like a shot from a pistol.

* * *

 

                John was a pretty easy going person. He’d never asked for much out of people and was comfortable to take what people gave him. As a lover it made him astoundingly indulgent, as a student it had made him adaptable, and as a doctor in training it had made him calm in the face of trauma. The rhythm of the music at the club changed to something more deliciously sexual, and in that moment he was uncharacteristically begging God for just one night where things all went _his_ way. Somehow, he’d found himself led by the wrist to the epicenter of the dance floor. The beat of the music was part of him now, he was sure, slow and seductive. The hand grasping him was oddly gentle and attached to a man he’d met only minutes before. A man so fucking pretty he’d been battling his baser instincts just to keep himself upright and not launch himself at Sherlock, drag them into a sweaty tangle on the floor, and attempt to fuck him through it. _Easy John, get a grip on yourself._

Finally, they reached their destination, and Sherlock had abruptly stopped tugged John towards him. John bit back his groan as he felt his body come into continuous contact with Sherlock’s. Lips brushed his ear, and the velvety rough voice began.

                “Now, John Watson. What do I have to do to get you panting, hmm?”

                John held his tongue. Probably for the best. He was sure all he would have done was moan as Sherlock’s hot breath tickled the shell of his ear.

                “Not going to help me? Well then, I suppose I’ll just have to deduce it.” He broke away to circle around John, and pressed himself against John’s back. John could feel a bulge at the top of his arse and tried, failingly, to ignore it. Sherlock’s hands snaked their way down his abdomen and his mouth found John’s ear again.

                “When I talk to you, you glance down at my mouth and lick your lips. Maybe you’re just wondering what it’d be like to kiss me, but I think it goes deeper than that.” Sherlock’s hands were now on the tops of John’s thighs, his thumbs brushing large circles that were slowly edging closer and closer to his groin.

                “No, John, you know what I think? I think you want to know what my lips would look like wrapped around the base of your cock.” He crooned the last word, and John’s eyes blew open. _Yes, bloody Christ, yes_. He groaned as he thought of Sherlock on his knees, his head bobbing up and down on John’s shaft, as his hands threaded through those curls.

                Sherlock chuckled before continuing, “There’s a spot on your neck where it meets your shoulder, it’s sensitive and you love having it kissed. You touch it when you’re nervous. Now you’re wondering if I’ll bite it as I come inside you.” John began to tremble with want. “Don’t worry, John I will. All in good time.”

John’s thoughts now centered on Sherlock driving into him at a brutal pace against a wall, raking his nails against that broad expanse of pale back before an orgasm tore through him and he bit off a cry into the tender flesh of John’s shoulder. Sherlock’s mouth moved from his ear and laid a tender kiss precisely at the place he’d been describing. John moaned internally. _How the fuck does he know all of this?_

                Sherlock was in front of him now, his forehead resting against John’s. “But that’s not what you like most of all is it John? No, I know what you want.”

                John swallowed, “Oh, you do?” His voice was heavy with arousal.  

                Sherlock smirked before leaning back to his ear, his hands pulling John’s hips to meet his own, “Indeed, I do. You know what you like most?” John felt his tongue hint across the edge of his earlobe. He could feel the music in his veins throbbing along with the blood in his system.

                John shook his head, and he felt a hand snake up to his hair wrenching his face up to Sherlock’s.

                “More than anything John, you like eye contact.”

 And just like that they were moving, dancing. Sherlock’s eyes were boring into his own as he ground himself into John. John watched eagerly as Sherlock’s mouth opened into a perfect ‘O’. _Hmmm, not so unaffected yourself, then_. Sherlock’s eyes were burning into John when John decided it was time for him to take a much more active role in his own seduction. He listened to the pulse of the music and the motion of Sherlock’s hips, so when Sherlock moved forward to grind his body against John, John crested forward to meet him half-way. Sherlock’s eyes flickered. Encouraged, John took a hand and wrapped it around the hair and the nape of Sherlock’s neck, wrenching him forward into a vicious kiss.

                John didn’t like to brag, but he had to admit this was one of his talents. His tongue swept over Sherlock’s lower lip before pressing forward. Sherlock’s mouth opened with a sigh, and John began taking. Usually, he held back. He let his lover set the pace and he was happy to work within their boundaries, but not now. Sherlock Holmes wanted to watch him crumble? First, he was going to have to ask _nicely_. His tongue stoked Sherlock’s and his hand had moved from the back of Sherlock’s head to his jaw. He ran steady fingers over the underside of his jaw bone in sharp contrast to his own pillaging tongue, and Sherlock gasped. _Now then, Sherlock Holmes, what makes you tick? Let’s find out._

                They’d stopped moving to the music now and instead began following the rhythms of an entirely different dance, a more dangerous one. Before, Sherlock had been in control of the situation, teasing out John’s responses with that ridiculous, filthy mouth of his, now it was John’s turn. His hands roamed Sherlock’s body, pausing after brushing a thumb against his nipple had elicited a deep rumbling growl from the man’s chest. _Ah, bingo._ His mouth broke away from Sherlock’s to trace kisses down the expanse of his pale white throat. 

                “Your place or mine?” He growled into Sherlock’s ear.

                “Mine. It’s closer,” Sherlock gasped, gulping in air. Now, it was time for John to lead, and he tugged Sherlock through the dance floor, past the bar, and out into the cold London December, stopping only to grab their jackets on the way out. John breathed deeply and hoped the night air helped to clear out his sex-addled brain. Sherlock stepped forward and somehow managed to summon a cab out of nowhere. He opened the door and looked back at John before stepping in. _What in the absolute fuck am I doing?_ John asked himself briefly, but then he thought about the low rumble of Sherlock’s voice against his ear murmuring filthy things that seemed to have scorched themselves into his reptilian brain. _If you don’t do it, then I guess you’ll never know._ A second later, he was shutting the cab door behind himself.

                The car was dark, the haze from the club had lifted enough that awkwardness began to creep into the backseat. Uncomfortable in the silence, John broke it.

                “So, how in the hell did you know your flat was closer than mine?”

                “Easy. You go to Bart’s and you’re a broke student. You’re not going to live far away from the school when they have cheap housing right around it. My flat’s only three blocks over. St. Bart’s is nearly ten. So, mine’s almost certainly closer."

                “And how did you know I go to Bart’s?”

                “The same way I know you’ve an older brother named Harry whom you don’t like, probably because of his increasing dependency on alcohol. It’s also the way I know that you wanted to be a surgical resident, but that intermittent tremor in your left hand, unfortunately also your dominant hand, held you back. Likely, the injury was from one of the sports you’ve played since childhood. You played rugby and football, but I’m guessing it was a shoulder injury from rugby in particular. In short, I see what other people ignore.”

                Sherlock had said all of this at blinding speeds that left John’s mind whirling. “Amazing, that was absolutely … amazing,” John praised. 

                “Really?” Sherlock's face showed surprise.

                “Of course it was.”

                “That’s not what people normal say.”

                “What do people normally say?”

                “Piss off.”

                John was still laughing as the cab pulled to a stop outside of a nice part of Westminster, Baker Street, if he wasn’t mistaken.

                “So did I get it all right?” Sherlock asked.

                “You’re right. Harry and I don’t get on.”

                Sherlock’s grin was beaming. “Excellent. I didn’t expect to get everything.”

                “Harry is short for Harriet,” John continued.

                “ _Sister_. There’s always something!” Sherlock spat.

They got out of the cab and Sherlock rummaged his pockets for his keys. The door swung open and they climbed the 17 steps to 221 B and paused at the door. After the heat and heaviness of the club, the dusty, quiet hallway was a stark contrast. Sherlock unlocked the door, but rested his hand on the door handle without opening it. He looked to John in confirmation, and John believed that he understood. Sherlock was giving him an out. If he wanted to, he could leave right now, catch another cab, and that would be that. John understood, but couldn’t help but chuckle.

                “Not a chance, Holmes. Not a bloody chance.”

He shook his head before pulling him into a searing kiss. The room was lit only by the light coming in from the wide windows. Sherlock’s mouth was still against his for a moment, and John began to wonder if he’d made a mistake, but as soon as the thought entered his head, Sherlock made a small noise against him and wrenched the door open. Sherlock dragged him in and pressed him into the sitting room wall, and John realized that Sherlock was like a light switch. On or off. No middle ground. John smiled into the kiss. _I can work with that_. His hands skimmed down from Sherlock’s neck down his chest, as he began flicking open the buttons of Sherlock’s aubergine shirt. Sherlock shivered as John smoothed his hands over the expanses of pale, creamy skin.  _Oh, yes, this I can definitely work with_.

                Sherlock pulled away and studied him, his rumpled curls and cat-like eyes making him appear wild and untamable. His lips were swollen now, and they twisted up into a devilish smile. He was hypnotic as he reached forward to pull to lower hem of John’s T-shirt. His thumbs drew across John’s hipbones before one hand left to trace the golden hair trailing from John’s navel and down into his jeans. Suddenly, his hand dipped down, and John groaned as he palmed his heavy erection. Sherlock slunk down to his knees and began tearing at John’s belt, buttons, and flies before pulling the whole lot down to John’s knees and swallowing him down without preamble.

                John looked down to find Sherlock’s gaze burning back into his own. He remembered Sherlock’s words from earlier, but in this moment he realized his fantasies were nothing like the real thing. He would have never imagined just how hot and lush Sherlock’s mouth would be, how Sherlock’s rolling growls would feel around him as they vibrated in his throat and around John’s cock. God, it was fantastic. Like Christmas and his birthday had come at once and he’d been a very, very good boy. He rested his hands on Sherlock’s head, neither pulling nor tugging, just carding his fingers through the soft curls. Sherlock was incredibly thorough, systematically licking and lapping his tongue at the underside of John’s cock as be bobbed up and sucking with an achingly perfect amount of pressure on the way down. John threw his head back and moaned.

                “Bloody Christ! I’m gonna come if you keep that up,” he hissed.

                Sherlock pulled back with a slick pop, watching John through dark lashes. As soon as he was away, John wanted him back, thinking perhaps it wouldn’t be such a hardship to come in a mouth as talented and attractive as Sherlock’s. John grabbed him to bring him back to his feet, and Sherlock kissed him hard and full. John could taste the hints of nicotine and liquor and the taste of what he was quickly learning was expressly _Sherlock_ mixed with what he could now identify as his own pre-come.

                “Take me to bed. Now,” John ordered, as he stepped out of his pants and trousers completely. His voice was rough, and his tone brooked no argument.

                Sherlock steered them through the sitting room of the flat, past the kitchen and towards the end of the hall through a door, the whole time both men shedding their remaining clothing and pausing to touch each newly exposed piece of skin. The lights were off, but the ambient lighting of London streaked through the room. The alternating darkness dressed Sherlock’s face in shadows and stark white skin, heightening its dramatic angles. John admired them briefly, and then pushed the lanky man down on the bed before sinking down on top of him.     

                His mouth roamed all that skin he’d been desperate to touch for what seemed like ages now. He kissed a trail down Sherlock’s jawline and down to that long, graceful neck, biting and sucking at it. He wanted to leave his mark, to mar its cream colored perfection, to litter it with red and purple. He wanted Sherlock Holmes to look in the mirror tomorrow morning and find the evidence of their evening together. If this was to be one night only, John was more than determined to make it the best night of Sherlock’s life. His hands traveled down Sherlock’s chest finding a taut nipple and pinching at it slightly, eliciting a light moan from him.

                John released his neck, “Now, Sherlock, it’s my turn. Would you like to hear how I’m going to do it?” 

                Sherlock’s eyes were wide, pupils blown wide as he nodded silently.

                John laughed and flicked the tender bud of flesh under his fingers. “Sorry, darling. What was that?”

                “Yes, John. Yes,” the man keened.  

                John kissed his way back up the man’s neck, nipping at one of the red marks he’d left as he went.

                “I am going to disassemble you with my tongue, Sherlock. I’m going to lick my way down all this lovely skin of yours, tease your cock, and nibble at the insides of your thighs. I’m going to spread you wide, and I’m going to taste you.” Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a moan, and John decided it may have been the most brilliant noise he’d heard in his whole life. He leaned in closer to the man’s ear, hoping his voice still held the commanding steel it had possessed earlier and gave away none of his own clawing need. “And once I’ve licked you open, I’m going to work you wider still with my fingers while my mouth more thoroughly explores that lovely cock of yours. Finally if, and only if, you ask nicely, I’m going to let you ride me.”

                Sherlock laughed.

                That was certainly not to plan.

                He chuckled and chortled indulgently.

                No, definitely not.

                Like you’d laugh at a child parading around in his father’s dress clothes.

                John found himself in a moment on his back, Sherlock now lurking above him. Adrenaline slammed into his system, his already overheated blood now near boiling. Sherlock pinned his hips to the bed and began tracing the lines of his hip bones with his nose, his breath somehow cooler than John’s heat-flushed skin.

                “Quite the admirable plan, John,” he stated with absolute aplomb, that accent just as crisp and refined as it would have been in the Eton-cum-Cambridge classrooms he’d likely occupied since adolescence. “And one I’m sure you’ve used more than once to a fair bit of success as lovely as you are. Sorry, but you’re going to learn that I’m not like anything you’ve ever seen before.”

                He moved up the bed, crawling over John. John had underestimated the measure of Sherlock Holmes. This man was absolutely predatory, dominating, consuming. Those slanted, sloe eyes stalked him now like prey. “You see,” he continued, that smoke and scotch voice seeming to fill the entirety of the space even though John was almost sure it was no louder than a whisper. John could feel his pulse thrumming in his neck, blood swooshing in his ears. “What you’re suggesting is one-sided. You want to crumble me, break me into pieces and put me back together again.” John had no idea how the man had realized that thought, present from the very beginning. His mouth moved over one of John’s nipples, the sudden bite made John’s eyes flicker shut. “But, what I want, John… what I want is mutual destruction.” His breath puffed up John’s sternum and when John’s eyes reopened, he found himself face to face with him, looking up into eyes washed grey in the London lamplight.

                Sherlock Holmes wanted to break and be broken, to devour and be devoured. “Good sex is a battle, a match of wills,” he continued. “Great sex? Great sex is an annihilation game. So which is it, John? What’ll it be?” He asked against John’s lips, pale eyes challenging. It was more than John could bear and nowhere near enough to keep him alive. John made his choice.

                He lunged.

                What followed was two men pitted against one another, one moment one on top, using his temporary position to bite and savor his partner’s skin before he found himself trapped, his own flesh sampled. Each giving and taking in equal measure, the ebb and flow at times slow, sometimes snapping with sweetly-crackling intensity.

 John had had all sorts of sex in his life. Lighthearted and laughing, slow and sensual, hard and harsh. All of it was good, better than. All if it was more than _fine_. But, none of it was like this. No matter what position, what act, John had always managed to keep control during his sexual encounters. He fitted his partner’s needs, but never gave himself over completely, holding back what he needed to stay in a position of power. Now, all of that seemed a million miles away. He’d surrender to Sherlock, submit to him completely as that clever tongue navigated his spine, the hollow of his hip, his most intimate of entrances. But then, he’d find himself dragging begging moans from Sherlock, hands sweeping and roaming all that moonlit skin, stroking the insides of his thighs, petting his collar bones. He’d explored all those bits of flesh often forgotten: the bend of an elbow, the outside of an ankle, the crease of a leg meeting groin.

                It was impossible for John to say how many times they did this, back and forth. Finally, John had Sherlock’s hips held down with an arm, his mouth suckling on one of Sherlock’s balls while his other hand steadily pumped his shaft.

                “John,” he whined. He’d been alternating between John’s name and a litany of ‘fuck’ and ‘God’ and ‘Christ don’t stop’ for the past few minutes, so John paid him no mind until he felt a sharp tug to his hair and looked up from between Sherlock’s legs to a wild eyed, near frantic gaze. John could have gloated that he’d managed to get Sherlock to stop, to beg for him, but he knew that desperation was surely mirrored in his own eyes.

                “Shh,” he soothed, sitting up to grab the bottle of lubricant he spotted on the nightstand. “God, look at you,” he praised. “Absolutely gorgeous.”

                “John, ple—,“ Sherlock babbled.

                “Shh, you’re alright. I’ve got you,” he lulled, running a hand down Sherlock’s long flank. He cracked the bottle and poured too much of the slippery gel into his other hand. He let it warm for a moment, while gazing up at Sherlock.

                “Christ, I can’t wait to be inside you. I’ve never needed something so much in my bloody life.”

                Sherlock made to speak again, but it was cut off, this time by one of John’s blunt fingers circling the tight puckered skin of his hole. John held himself back and reminded himself to go slowly even though his brain was screaming to thrust inside that tight heat as quickly as he could. Sherlock loosened incrementally while John’s fingers teased and stroked inside of him. He was soft and impossibly tight and hot. John could feel Sherlock’s pulse through that connection, his own matching its wild tattoo. Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, John scissored his two fingers before grinding them against Sherlock’s prostate, and Sherlock nearly snarled.

                “Fuck, John. Just do it already,” Sherlock hissed.

                John moved, lubricating himself before pressing the head of his cock into Sherlock. John tried to run through the details of the endocrine system in his head, anything to keep from coming then and there before he even gotten himself seated inside. He started moving slowly forward, but Sherlock let out a discontented sigh and wrapped his legs around his waist before digging his heels into John’s arse and forcibly pressing him forward deeper inside of him. In a moment, John was completely buried in the clenching heat. He gasped and then paused, reminding himself to breathe. It was enough time for Sherlock to grow restless again and begin to comment before John started rolling his hips.

                “John Watson, if you don’t start fucking me this instant I swear to God… Oh God. Fuck, John. Don’t stop! Don’t you dare stop.”

                John grinned as the man’s tone morphed near instantly from one of displeasure to one of exaltation. John Watson wasn’t a braggart, he certainly wasn’t interested in showboating, but John knew he was a fantastic shag. He angled his thrusts upward to run brushing strokes against Sherlock’s prostate and buried his head at Sherlock’s neck, groaning out his own pleasure between bouts of laving attention to Sherlock’s delicate throat.

                “You feel incredible,” he murmured into Sherlock’s ear. “God, I could stay in you for days. I’d hardly be able to keep out of you.”

                Sherlock shuddered in response, gasping out John’s name and a string of broken words that sounded like Russian and lilted like French.

                John pushed the pace, ramping it up from languid rolling and rocking to deeper, harder thrusts that left him breathless and swallowing Sherlock’s cries as he kissed and bit his lips. Sherlock was rippling around him. His cock was trapped between their bodies creating an ever growing pool of pre-come. Sherlock’s hands clawed at John’s back, a sweet sting that drew enough of John’s attention that he could keep it together and delay his own orgasm before it spiraled beyond his control. John reveled at all these sensations while Sherlock arched up, eagerly meeting him thrust for thrust.

                Until this point, Sherlock’s eyes had been shut, lost in the reactions and sensations John was creating, but at that moment, Sherlock’s eyes flared open and stared deeply into John’s. It was strange that in the middle of shagging the man blind, completely nude, and already seen in an assortment of compromising positions, that this would be the moment that made him feel bare. It was equally strange that after all the words that had poured from that kiss-bruised mouth, all the sights of that same mouth over his skin, those brilliant fingers doing astounding things to so many parts of him, that a simple look and a reverently whispered ‘ _John_ ’ would have him scrambling for Sherlock’s cock between them. He stared into Sherlock’s eyes, terrified to know what would happen if he looked away, only knowing that it would be dreadful not to be held in the man’s stare. His hand wrapped furtively around Sherlock’s cock and began pumping him rapidly as he felt his balls begin to drawl up to signal his own release was eminent.

                “Sherlock,” he pleaded. “God, Jesus. Fuck. Sherlock.”

                Sherlock was coming with a whimpered garble of throaty sounds and somehow tightening further around John’s cock. That was all it took for John to be pouring himself into Sherlock, marking him deep inside, marking them both.

                Eventually, he rolled off of Sherlock to collapse beside him in a tattered heap of bones and skin that might have been a person at some point in time. He listened to Sherlock’s breath coming out at first in huge, heaving gusts and then slowing, regulating into something more normal. John thought back to Sherlock’s words. ‘Mutual destruction.’ The bastard had been correct of course. This was better than any sexual encounter John had ever had and it made him wince with its unmitigated honesty. He felt wrung out, burnt up, crumbled down. Exhausted, exhilarated, and more alive than he could remember. He reminded himself to keep a level head, to remember that he was John Watson who wasn’t looking for anything more than a good time, but all of that seemed too far away to fathom. He sat up and drug his feet and legs over the edge of the bed. He needed to gather up his clothes, get dressed, and slip away before Sherlock started staring at him pointedly and wondering why he was still here. He was a one night stand, and that was that. Sherlock Holmes hadn’t communicated anything that would go any further than that.

                But, as he began to push himself up, a finely boned hand touched at the back of his shoulder.

                “Stay,” Sherlock mumbled, already half-asleep. John glanced back at the man, eyes already closed again as he wiggled into his pillows. Suddenly, the post-coital crash hit him, and John felt himself growing sleepy. Sherlock wanted him to stay, so he stayed.  

* * *

 

                Hot. John was hot, burning up when he woke the next morning. He opened his eyes to streaming sunlight pouring through the window and six feet of sleep-warmed brunet pressed to his back. Normally, John would have stayed, would have woken him up with a lazy, luxurious blowjob before rimming him until he nearly sobbed and fucking him into wakefulness. But, Sherlock had already proven to be different, perhaps too real for John to handle so early in the bright light of morning. So, instead, he did something he never did. He put his clothes on quietly and began to make his way to slip out the door. He paused at the kitchen unable to resist at least a bit of kindness. He turned on the hob and searched the flat for pen and paper.

                Later, when he shut the door to 221 Baker Street after some rather knowing smiles from whom he could only suppose was John’s landlady, he came face to face with a tall, ginger man. He was well dressed and carrying an umbrella even though the sky was, for once, a guileless, peaceful blue.

                “John Watson. Soon to be Dr. Watson,” he greeted. His voice wasn’t as low as Sherlock’s, but it had the same clipped, forceful properness that Sherlock’s did, and even more telling was the same cool evaluative stare from this man that John had experienced last night in the club as Sherlock Holmes unraveled every one of John’s fantasies.

                “How do you know who I am?”

                The man smiled mildly. “Get in the car, John. You and I have much to discuss.”

* * *

 

                Sherlock woke some time later after sleeping more in one night than he had in the last week and a half combined. He rolled over to find his bed empty, and he listened, but heard no movement anywhere in the flat. With any other partner he would have been happy to be spared the awkwardness of a morning after that never resulted with more sex, but instead with Sherlock snarling deductions still half-asleep and some person slamming his door too hard on their way out. With John Watson, however, that could have been different. Morning sex, any sex really, with John sounded like a gift from the gods, better than the best locked room murder, better than his first line of cocaine.

                He sighed before dragging himself out of bed, wincing at his head pounding out and promising a hangover and walking with the slightest trace of a limp thanks to none other than the good doctor himself. It was probably for the best the man had left, anyway. He fished out his mobile from his trousers and read his new messages quickly.

                _I hope you now realize the depth of my sacrifice, Sherlock. I expect full details at dinner. – Adler_

 _  
_ He sighed, but then chuckled deeply. Thank God Irene Adler had learned that with Sherlock dinner really did mean dinner, and even that he ate only reluctantly. He texted a reply in the affirmative and decided he would take her to Angelo’s to make up for her apparent suffering at not being allowed to shag John Watson. Sherlock had to agree with her. She had no idea what she was missing.

                The next text made him want to fling his phone and devise a plan to blow up Parliament.  

                _My, my, brother dear.  I’m certainly glad you’ve managed to have a good night without any, shall we say, recreational stimulation. Well, sort of, at any rate. However, I will admit John Watson is much better for you than cocaine. M_

Sodding big brothers and their sodding spying. Christ, he could strangle Mycroft with one of those frankly appalling neck ties, but his murderous intent was cut short when he saw the third text.

                _There’s been a forth suicide. Interested? This one left a note. GL_

This was more like it. He texted back for the details. Yes, finally! Something from Scotland Yard to keep him occupied. _The idiots, they aren’t suicides at all_ , he thought _._ Anyone could see that. He scrambled to get a shower and dress quickly, his body still damp from the spray. He was almost out the door when he saw the tea sitting beside the red chair in the sitting room. No one ever sat there, but John had assumed it was where he sat in the mornings. _Idiot,_ he scoffed again, this time almost tenderly. Obviously, he sat in the other chair. The wear patterns were clear. However… the tea was warm, no longer hot but manageable, and it was sweetened perfectly, just the way Sherlock liked it. John Watson was worth his weight in gold if he could make a good kettle of tea on top of dragging him to the bedroom and making his mind grow quiet for a few blissful hours. It was then that he noticed the small slip of paper, and he grinned at the string of digits, the _‘JW’_ scrawled in what could only be a doctor’s hand. Still smiling, he took up his mobile and, then, took a chance. Besides, he could always use a doctor at a crime scene.

* * *

 

                John rolled his eyes as the man, now known to him as Mycroft Holmes, tried to deduce his whole life, his trust issues, his need for danger. This was a ridiculous amount of melodrama, and somehow there was only one person in the whole world he really wanted to tell it to. How had that happened? When had it happened? John was anxious, hoping his note wouldn’t go amiss, hoping he hadn’t read the whole thing completely wrong.

                “I’m prepared to offer you a great sum of money for information regarding Sherlock Holmes.”

                John’s mobile buzzed from his pocket. He took it out and read it, blatantly ignoring Sherlock’s brother.

                _Come at once if convenient. Brixton. Lauriston Gardens. I’ll explain once you’re here. SH_

                John’s grin was instantaneous, but why on earth would Sherlock want to meet in bloody Brixton? He glanced up at Mycroft and held the smile. “No,” he replied simply.

                “You’re very loyal, very fast, John Watson.”

                _If inconvenient come anyway. SH_

John’s grin widened and he turned his back on Mycroft, walking back to the car. Mycroft’s assistant studied her own phone now.

                “I’m to take you home now,” she stated coolly.

                “Brixton actually. If you’d be so kind,” he corrected, just loud enough for Mycroft to catch. He could practically hear his eyes rolling back in his head along with his exhausted sigh.

                _Why, Sherlock Holmes. I thought you’d never ask. JW_

* * *

 

Across town, Sherlock Holmes smiled and decided that instead of Irene, he’d take John Watson to dinner tonight at Angelo’s. Irene would understand. Besides... He had a date.


End file.
